


Glory

by Siggy1998



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 07:37:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siggy1998/pseuds/Siggy1998
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Levi Ackerman is a creative writing professor at Sina University and a struggling songwriter. He has a cat who is batshit crazy, friends who might be crazier, and a slightly unhealthy (and nearly secret) fixation with his favorite band, The Masked Intruders.<br/>Reaper leads a double life. By day she is a sarcastic and anxiety-ridden college student studying music and creative writing; by night she is the lead singer of world famous band The Masked Intruders, a band whose members don hoodies and masks to conceal their identities. In her first semester of her third year of college she takes Songwriting 101 with a man who is equal parts handsome, intimidating, and irritating, and she can't seem to get his piercing grey eyes out of her mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Glory Part I

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of the music in this fanfiction. The song in this chapter is called "Glory" by Hollywood Undead.

Reaper’s POV

  _Welcome to the world you see_

_An AK with a couple magazines_

_Whose blood it is, don't matter to me_

_Scatter the ashes over seven seas_

_That sickness, that feeling inside you_

_That's weakness, don't let it divide you_

_Keep this, that feeling of pride too_

_Digging up bones but you bury the truth_

            I pulled my hood farther forward before adjusting my grip on the microphone. My palms were sweaty and I was suddenly very grateful that the mic was currently anchored to its stand. I looked down, away from the crowd, and quickly swiped them across the weft of my jeans. Eren was standing on the stage about ten feet away, confidently holding the mic up to his mouth and rapping the words I had written on a paper napkin a year earlier. The crowd was going absolutely wild as he spoke, screaming and holding up poster board signs with drawings of his mask on them. I adjusted my own mask so that it fit more securely around my eyes but left my mouth free.

_Children, hypocrisy,_

_That's what I give, you can take it from me_

_If you don't, won't live to see_

_One last act of tragedy_

            It was almost my part. I wiped my hands on my jeans again before gripping the mic in its stand.

_No mother's heart can make me humble_

_No life lost can make me stumble_

_Our empire will never crumble_

            With that, Eren looked over at me through the eyeholes of his mask, sending me a confident smirk, like he knew he had done well and that I would do better. I took a deep breath and opened my mouth.

_We did it for the glory_

_The glory_

_Only the glory_

_We live inside a story_

_It's a story_

_All for the glory_

            I smiled to myself as my voice came out. It was just as it had been for the past three months we had been on tour – rough, loud, clear, and uncracking. More screams burst out of the audience and I saw a group of college-age guys who were staring at me. One of them winked at me and I felt myself growing hot. I quickly looked over at Eren as I finished up the chorus, cueing him to begin rapping the second verse.

_Bullets, begin to strip_

_A man of reason_

_He's a man of sin_

_The men of treason are the ones who live_

_They'll take what you got, what you got to give_

_Then pyre, a trial by fire_

_They're liars like funeral pyres_

            “We love you, One!” a high-pitched voice called out from the crowd. Eren chuckled into the mic, reaching up to trace the edge of the number one which decorated his mask. I chuckled down below the head of the mic so it would go unnoticed, all the while bouncing my knee in time with Eren’s voice.

_The letter to a mother from across the sea_

_A son in a box buried beneath_

_For whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee_

_For whom they saw when they put you to sleep_

_A deal with the devil is a deal with me_

_That deal is forever; as long as you breathe_

_Go forth child; make us proud_

_Honor is yours; underground_

_Know we love you, lay you down._

            I tipped the microphone stand a bit closer to my mouth and sang:

_We did it for the glory_

_The glory_

_Only the glory_

_We live inside a story_

_It's a story_

_All for the glory_

            Just like we had done at every other show on the tour, Eren and I simultaneously released our mics from their stands and walked down onto the protruding catwalk of the stage, going out into the audience. We stepped onto a platform stood back to back, me facing the audience on stage left and him the audience on stage right, and pressed the microphones up to our mouths. Both of us sang this time as the platform began rotating.

_Nobody runs!_

_Nobody runs!_

_Nobody runs or makes it out alive!_

_Nobody runs!_

_Nobody runs!_

_Nobody runs or makes it out alive!_

            Eren retook his role as rapper and I took the mic away from my face for a moment, catching my breath.

_Hearts beating faster running to the front lines_

            I leaned back into the microphone.

_Nobody runs or makes it out alive!_

            Eren leaned his back against mine, pressing our bodies flush together.

_Look up to heaven as it rains from the sky_

            I rested my head against Eren’s shoulder.

_Nobody runs or makes it out alive!_

            I brought my head back up and closed my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart.

_Out alive._

            I inhaled sharply and held my mic in a death grip.

_Out alive_

_Because we did it for the glory_

_The glory_

_Only the glory_

_We live inside a story_

_It's a story_

_All for the glory!_

            Eren and I jumped off the platform and began backing down the runway, holding our microphones to our mouths as everyone in the band and in the crowd began singing with us. All the instruments aside from the drums fell silent.

_The glory_

_The glory_

_The glory_

_We did it for the glory_

_The glory_

_For the glory!_

            Eren and I ended the performance by pumping our fists in the air. My chest was heaving, and from a cursory glance from the corners of my eyes told me that Eren’s was, too. He grabbed my outstretched hand and clasped it in his own, shaking it slightly in triumph. I smiled slightly at the crowd.

            As nervous as this always made me, I was glad I was able to do it.

            The lights suddenly cut out and my bandmates and I quickly ran offstage, the stage lit only by the bulbs backstage. We all pushed through one of the stage doors until we entered the brightly-lit cinderblock hall that housed the dressing rooms. Once the door quietly clicked closed we let out loud victory cries, pumping our fists in the air and high-fiving each other. Armin clapped both his hands against mine in a high-five before pulling me in for a hug.

            Armin was the keyboardist for our band, The Masked Intruders, and my closest friend. His mask, like the rest of ours, covered his forehead and cheekbones and was emblazoned with a large white number on its left side. His was a six.

            “You did great, Seven!” he exclaimed, pulling back from me and putting his hands on my shoulders. His eyes radiated sincerity and I couldn’t help but smile. He was too damn cute.

            “You did, too, Six,” I said. He let go of my shoulders to high-five Berthold.

            “Who wants to get something to eat after this?” asked Reiner. He was met with assenting whoops from all the other boys. “What about Maria’s?” More assent.

            “What about you, R- Seven?” Armin asked me. Everyone was always careful to call me Seven when I was in my mask, as I was the one who was most adamant about keeping my anonymity.

            I shook my head.

            “Not this time,” I said. Everyone groaned.

            “Come on, Seven. You do this every time – the ‘maybe next time’ thing,” complained Eren.

            “And you know why, too,” I said. “If we were just going to someone’s house and hanging out I’d be all over it, but if we’re going out in public…”

            Eren shrugged, understanding and giving up.

            “What if we all go to my place?” suggested Marco. “I’ll order pizzas. My treat.”

            Everyone looked at me.

            “I can do that,” I said. Everyone whooped. Reiner clapped me on the back and I laughed, starting to walk back to my dressing room. What would I have done without those guys?

            The reason I wasn’t exactly keen on going out in public was that I had extreme anxiety problems, sometimes so extreme that I couldn’t speak. It had started when my father had gotten harsher and unwittingly instilled this strange sense of paranoia in me, a paranoia that constantly told me that everyone was hoping I’d slip up, and it wasn’t getting any better. Restaurants and interviews were particularly grueling because I had to talk to strangers. I avoided them both like a plague.

            I reached the door to my dressing room, a thin door with a dry-erase board stuck on it at my eye-level. On the board there was a number seven written in bright blue marker. I stuck out my hand and twisted the knob, pushing in the door and entering the room. I closed the door and leaned against it before flipping the lock on the knob, going to sit in the cushy armchair that the event center had provided for me. After a cursory check around the room – I had once found a security camera in a dressing room, threatening to expose my identity– I reached up and slid my mask off of my face.

            My mask was probably the most complex of everyone’s. The base was black, with three black clay roses around the right eye and a long section that curved from the left eye and around the contour of my jaw. That part was designed to cover a very distinctive facial scar. Like everyone else’s masks, mine had a large white number on the left side – mine was a number seven in a font that messily followed the curves of the mask; _unlike_ everyone else’s masks, my mask had strips of black gauze over the eyeholes to prevent my eyes from showing while still letting me see.

            I placed my mask on the counter and grabbed my duffel bag, grabbing a pair of black pants and a black long-sleeved t-shirt from out of it. I slipped my sweatshirt over my head and turned to pick up the shirt when I caught myself in the mirror.

            I didn’t find myself attractive, nor did I find myself unattractive. I was just… strange-looking. Perhaps striking, but not beautiful. I had pale skin and jet-black hair (which was currently pulled back into a tight bun on the back of my head), high cheekbones and icy blue eyes. My stomach was flat and plated with lithe muscle, but what always caught my eye were the scars.

            I had a thin one snaking from the middle of my back to the side of my left hip, a thicker one that scraped my right collarbone, another one which ran vertically along the right side of my ribcage, and several more on my legs which I couldn’t see through my jeans. My most distinctive and obvious scar was the one which lined the left side of my jaw, raised and pink. I didn’t necessarily think they were unattractive, but I also didn’t really like showing them. Too many questions were involved.

            I slid on the shirt – it had the band’s symbol (a crest with two crossing wings) on the front pocket and the word “crew” emblazoned in white across the back – and replaced my jeans with the black pants, not bothering to change out of my shoes. They were inconspicuous enough, being plain black converse high-tops. I pulled my jacket out of the duffel bag and tied it around my waist before stuffing my stage clothes and mask into the now-empty bag. Shrugging the bag over my shoulder, I turned off the light and left.

            I met my bandmates outside the backstage entrance, all of them wearing clothes nearly identical to mine – Armin had come up with the idea of disguising ourselves as crew members to leave the venue unnoticed shortly before our first concert three years earlier. I was the last one there, and when the stage door closed Reiner clapped me on the back again. I stumbled forward from the force of it and he laughed.

            “What kind of pizza does everyone want?” asked Marco. I noticed that he had laced fingers with Jean and I had to suppress a smile. I had shipped them for a full year-and-a-half before they had gotten together.

            Jean said that he wanted margherita, Reiner said sausage (while casting a suggestive look to a sweating Berthold), Berthold said cheese, Eren said stuffed-crust supreme, Armin wanted to share Jean’s margherita, and I said I’d share Eren’s stuffed-crust supreme. Marco, the only vegetarian in the group, told us he’d share Berthold’s cheese. He fished his phone from his jacket pocket so he could call in the order, and we all began walking down the sidewalk towards the back parking lot.

            Armin fell behind so he could talk to me, leaving Eren to argue with Jean. Those two never had gotten along.

            “How are you holding up?” he asked.

            “Are you referring to anxiety or something else?”

            “Anxiety.”

            I shrugged.

            “It’s always hard being on stage, but I still enjoyed it,” I said. “Other than that I’m just counting the days until I can see a psychiatrist.”

            “Why can’t you see one now?” he asked. “I’m sure they’d be able to prescribe you something that would help with the anxiety attacks. Or panic attacks. Whichever ones you get.”

            “Anxiety attacks. And I can’t see one now because I’m still a minor.”

            My friend stopped.

            “You’re a minor?” he asked. I nodded. “I thought you were our age.”

            The rest of my bandmates were in their last year of college at Sina University, all of them being around twenty-two or twenty-three. Armin had skipped a grade and was twenty. I had taken and aced a college entrance exam at the age of fourteen, so I had skipped several grades. I was now entering my third year of college at Sina.

            I shook my head.

            “Nope. I’m seventeen,” I said to my shoes.

            “How many grades did you skip?” he asked.

            “I bypassed high school.” I said. “Apparently it wasn’t necessary.”

            “Wow.”

            “Thanks.”

            I let Armin have a moment to adjust the idea before I asked what classes he was taking the coming semester. His face immediately lit up.

            “I’m so excited for this semester!” he said, almost squealing in excitement. “I’m taking my final music theory class, thank God, and I’m taking a film studies class! I’m also doing the most advanced piano course they have, and a creative writing class, and a songwriting class.”

            “Who do you have for songwriting?” I asked hopefully. I had a songwriting class, as well, and I sincerely hoped that Armin was in it. It might have given me courage to actually speak in class.

            “Ackerman, I think,” he said. I let out a breath.

            “Me too,” I said.

            “Cool!” he said, his eyes closing with the force of his smile. He really was the cutest thing I had ever laid my eyes on.

            “I hear he’s pretty tough, though.”

            “That’s what I hear, too. I’m not too worried, though. I ‘m looking forward to the challenge.”

            I shrugged. In all honesty I didn’t want much of a challenge. I was challenged enough as it was, concealing my identity and dealing with crippling social anxiety. What I really wanted was more time to write, songs and novels and fanfictions alike.

            “I guess,” I said.

            Marco took his phone away from his ear and tapped the screen before dropping it into his pocket.

            “Where’d you get the pizza from?” called Armin. Marco turned his head over his shoulder and told him that he’s ordered from Maria’s.

            “Do you want to ride with us, Reaper?” Reiner asked from in front of me. I looked up at him and saw that he had turned around and was walking backwards. Berthold was guiding him by the collar.

            “As long as neither of you take your dicks out of your pants, I will,” I said. Reiner dramatically sighed.

            “Ruined the plan.”

            I chuckled. It was well-known among my bandmates that I couldn’t drive, so they all had learned to keep a seat in their cars clear for me.

            When we finally reached the parking lot I bid a temporary farewell to Armin and followed Reiner and Berthold to the taller boy’s car, a beaten-up Jeep Wrangler that was so unlike Marco’s BMW or Eren’s Mercedes. Berthold was of the mind that a) as long as a car had good gas mileage and could get you from point A to point B it was good, and b) nobody would suspect that we were part of The Masked Intruders if we were driving a car that cost less than $25,000. I opened the back door and slid in, Reiner slapping the door closed behind me. I thanked him offhandedly as he got into the shotgun seat. Finally Berthold got into the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition, shifting the Wrangler – we had nicknamed it “Vomit Fucker 2000” because of the putrid green color Berthold had chosen – into drive.

            We were in front of Marco’s apartment building within fifteen minutes, parallel parking along the street in a spot without a parking meter. We waited to get out of the car until we saw Marco pull up in his black BMW. He parked and Jean got out of the passenger’s seat before going around to the back seat and retrieving several large pizza boxes. Berthold turned off the car, cueing us to get out. I opened my door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

            Inside Marco’s apartment was wonderful. It always smelled like an air freshener and whatever we were eating, it had an open kitchen, and it was clean, nothing like Jean’s or Eren’s bachelor pads. I inhaled once inside and was immediately greeted by lavender and pizza. I sighed.

            I walked over to one of Marco’s two couches and plopped down on the end cushion. Armin came and sat down beside me, leaning his exhausted head on my shoulder.

            “I don’t know why I agreed to this,” he yawned.

            “I don’t know why you did, either,” I said, petting his head.

            “If it isn’t the little lovebirds,” joked Jean. Armin rolled his eyes.

            “I’m gay and you know it, Horse Face,” he said sleepily.

            “Don’t call me Horse Face, you coconut!”

            “Everyone here is gay except for me,” I mused.

            “I’m not gay!” called Eren from the kitchen where he was getting paper plates out of Marco’s pantry. I could feel Armin’s shoulders sag against my own.

            “Yeah,” he coughed. “Eren’s not gay, Reaper.”

            I had to smirk into my fist. If there were two things I knew for certain they were that Eren was pining for Armin and that Armin was pining for Eren.

            “Yeah,” I called after Eren. “Not gay. One hundred percent straight. Absolutely no thoughts of slamming your cock into-“

            I was hit by a flying paper plate and everyone but Eren started laughing uncontrollably. Looking back into the kitchen I saw that the boy in question was blushing profusely. He turned back into the pantry, supposedly to look for something else but probably just to hide his red cheeks.

            By the time pizza was portioned out and half-eaten Reiner had the brilliant idea to make a beer run. Marco and Jean wanted Heinekens, Berthold said he’d take Bud Lights (everyone but Armin and I groaned at him), Eren requested Coronas, Reiner himself wanted Blue Moons, and Armin turned it down because he was still underage and didn’t like breaking laws. When it was my turn to request a beer I wrinkled my nose.

            “I’m not all that into alcohol,” I said. “I’ve seen what it does to people.”

            “Come on. Loosen up!” egged Reiner, coming over to me and ruffling my hair. I swatted his hands away.

            “I’m not going to ‘loosen up!’” I said, still defending myself from Reiner’s attacks. “Plus, I’m underage.”

            “Wait. How old are you?” asked Marco.

            “Yeah, I don’t think we’ve ever asked,” said Eren.

            Armin and I shared a glance and Reiner landed another blow to my hair.

            “Hey! Fuck off!” I exclaimed. My attacker laughed and put his hands up.

            “Are you going to tell us?” he asked.

            “Fine,” I capitulated. “I’m seventeen.”

            A chorus of gasps and loud “whoas” filled Marco’s apartment.

            “You’re _seventeen?_ ” asked Jean. “Holy shit! That means you were fourteen when we all met!”

            I nodded and Reiner groaned.

            “The first thing I ever said to you was ‘Hey pretty lady. Want to suck my dick?’!” he lamented. Everyone but him burst into laughter. “It’s not funny! You were fourteen and I was twenty!”

            I couldn’t breathe I was laughing so hard.

            “You were pretty mature for a fourteen-year-old,” offered Marco. I nodded and covered my mouth to try to control my laughter.

            “I-“ I tried to say. “I’d seen-“

            I couldn’t say it. I was laughing too hard.

            By the time I was able to calm down I was the only one still laughing. I coughed into my fist and looked away.

            “Are you done?” asked Armin.

            “Yeah,” I said. “I’m… I’m done.”

            Armin finally took his head off my shoulder and reached for my half-eaten slice of pizza before realizing it wasn’t his, then took a bite of his own. He really was tired.

            “Are you comfortable with us drinking?” Reiner asked me.

            “Go for it,” I said. “As long as you don’t get hammered I’ll be fine. And as long as one of you stays sober to drive me home.”

            “I’ll get a cup of coffee and drive you,” offered Armin.

            “Alright then!” exclaimed Reiner. He clapped his hands once. “We’ve got ourselves an arrangement!”

            Reiner quickly grabbed his beer list and jacket before walking out the door, telling us he’d be back soon.

            “Do you have your ID?” I called. He pulled it out of his wallet and showed it to me.

            “Can’t be getting arrested,” he said with a smirk before closing the door.

            The rest of the night followed as such: there was a toast to our last concert on our first North American tour, Jean and Reiner got fucking _hammered_ and I was simultaneously uncomfortable and amused, Marco spilled his half-empty beer on one of his couches and sang a horribly-worded impromptu song about how he was thankful his couch was leather, Armin fell asleep with his head on my lap, Eren looked longingly at the sleeping boy for a good five minutes before everyone else noticed, Reiner (who was hammered, if you’ll remember) burst out into “Walking on Sunshine” because he thought he heard talk of the sun, Berthold sipped a Bud Light and was somewhat less nervous than he normally was, and I got into a conversation with Marco about what it was like being friends with people who were a) all male, b) mostly gay, and c) several years older than me. I told him that none of those things bothered me in the slightest. When Armin stirred in my lap I checked the time on my phone. It was two in the morning.

            “I’m gonna wake Armin up and go, guys,” I said, shaking Armin’s shoulder. He started awake, mumbling something about butter and flies or butterflies. “Could you take me home?”

            He rubbed his eyes and nodded.

            “I don’t need the coffee thanks to that nap,” he said, sitting up.

            “See you guys!” Jean laughed annoyingly. He’d only had one-and-a-half drinks and he was already plastered. I got up and ruffled Jean’s strange hair.

            “See you too, buddy,” I said. He leaned into my touch and Marco chuckled.

            “He always falls asleep if you play with his hair,” he explained. I ruffled his hair one more time and Jean let out something akin to a moan. I didn’t play with his hair after that.

            “Come on, Armin,” I said, taking my jacket from around my waist and slipping it over my arms. “I need to go home.”

            “Same,” said Eren.

            “Then get your stuff,” Armin yawned. “I’ll drop Reaper off and then we’ll go home.”

            Eren complied, getting his phone and checking to make sure he had his keys. He tossed the keys to Armin and the blonde boy pocketed them. The three of us said goodbye to the other four before walking out of the door and down the stairs until we were outside.

            When Armin stopped in front of my apartment building I thanked him, getting out of the backseat and stepping out onto the concrete. I closed the door and they drove away. Eren waved at me through the shotgun window.

            I swiped my keycard across the reader and opened the building’s door, then climbed up a flight of stairs to get to my apartment. I unlocked the door and stepped inside, not really bothering to look around my home like I usually did. I trudged sleepily to my bathroom and took a shower, then changed into my pajamas and climbed into bed, trying very hard not to think about the fact that the semester was starting in less than a week.


	2. A Coffee Date and an Anxiety Attack

Reaper’s POV

            Several days later I was dressed in my black sweatshirt, a pair of skinny jeans, and my black converse. I had a navy backpack slung over one shoulder as I climbed the steps to Rose, the arts college within Sina University. I was on my way to my first class of the semester, songwriting with Professor Ackerman.

            I pushed in the glass door and walked into the building. The foyer had parquet-tiled floors and tall ceilings, wood-planked walls and pendant lights handing down from ceiling medallions, several pleather chairs scattered about the room and large abstract works of art mounted to the walls. I wiped my feet on the rubber mat in front of the door before proceeding down the hallways. I eventually made it to Greer Carson 140, the lecture hall where the class would be. I checked my phone to be sure that I was on time (I was slightly early) and turned the doorknob.

            Inside the lecture hall was what I had come to expect from Sina – windowless and grey. Grey carpeting, grey walls, grey swiveling chairs affixed to grey tables, grey-spirited people sitting in said chairs and resting their heads on said tables. I closed the door softly before quickly striding to the back of the classroom and sitting in the corner by the wall. Armin came into the room and sat down beside me, but the dark circles under his eyes and the cup of coffee in his hand told me not to talk to him until later.

            The beginning of class was marked by the entrance of a short, dark-haired man. He was followed by someone with glasses and a mess of brown hair pulled on top of their head, and this person was _loud_.

            “I’m in your class, Levi!” they cackled. From the timbre of their voice I assumed they were female, but I didn’t want to make any assumptions. “I’m in your class! I’m saying hi to your students! Hi students!”

            Everyone in the class mumbled a confused greeting.

            “Hanji, you need to leave,” the man said calmly and set his leather briefcase and coffee cup on the corner of the desk beside the podium. His voice was gorgeous but I tried not to pay too much attention to it.

            “I’m sitting on your desk,” the person – Hanji, I presumed – said excitedly as they planted their ass directly in the center of the desk. “I’m rifling through your things-“

            “Like hell you are,” the man growled, grabbing Hanji by the collar and dragging them/her out of the room.

            “It was nice meeting you all!” they laughed as the man slammed the door in their face. He leaned his forehead against the closed door and took a deep breath before turning around and going back to his briefcase. He dug through his things until he found a stack of papers and dropped them onto the tabletop.

            And then he looked up.

            _Oh._

            _Oh no_.

            He wore a white button-down and a pair of tailored black slacks. His black dress shoes were polished and the watch peeking out of his left cuff shone in the fluorescent light. His raven hair was styled into a sleek undercut, his skin was porcelain-pale, his cheekbones were high, his lips were thin and scowling, and his eyes themselves were piercingly grey. Silver even. My heart gave an odd flutter and I fleetingly wondered how I was going to get through the semester with such a hot teacher.

            “My name is Levi Ackerman, but you will call me Mr. Ackerman or Professor Ackerman. No ‘Levis’ or ‘Mr. Levis’ or ‘Professor Levis’ will be accepted, and if you dare comment on my height I will kick you out of the class immediately,” he said in his gorgeous voice. I felt my attraction to him wane a bit at his harshness. “This is Songwriting 101, so if you’re in the wrong class get out now.”

            A boy in the front row started and shoved his binder into his backpack. He scurried out of the room with a quick “sorry.”

            “Now that that’s out of the way,” Mr. Ackerman said, “I’ll get to handing out syllabi.”

            He grabbed the stack of papers and placed them in front of the first student in the front row.

            “Pass those down,” he instructed the student. “This syllabus just has due dates and assignment instructions, not to mention guidelines for how to behave in my class. The rules are fairly simple: respect me and I’ll respect you. Don’t talk while I’m talking unless you’re asking for a pencil or something, don’t throw spitballs, don’t make any annoying noises like repetitive pen clicking, don’t be late, et cetera.”

            He went on to explain that his class would cover the basics of penning both lyrics and music, that it would not be something you could take simply to boost your GPA, and that he would not show mercy to late assignments. Then he took roll and dismissed class in spite of the fact that it had only been in session for fifteen minutes.

            “Believe it or not I have a _massive_ hangover and being in this brightly-lit room has me contemplating suicide, so you brats need to get out so I can leave too,” he said. I had to suppress a chuckle. I assumed that he wouldn’t appreciate it.

            I slung my backpack over my shoulder and stood up, waiting for Armin to gather his things. Once he had stuffed his binder and pencils and whatever else he had on his section of the table into his backpack (he would have tiredly shoved his cooling coffee into his bag if I hadn’t stopped him) he stood up and we walked out of the room together.

            “What has you so tired?” I asked once I thought we were out of Mr. Ackerman’s earshot. I didn’t want him to have to deal with noise when he was hungover.

            Armin looked sleepily at me from the corners of his eyes.

            “I was reading,” he murmured. That didn’t surprise me.

            “What were you reading?” I asked. He covered a yawn with the crook of his elbow before speaking.

            “Articles about the band. I read some blog posts, too.”

            I made it a point to never read anything about The Masked Intruders, whether it be album reviews or blog posts or anything else. I liked to keep myself ignorant about how other people felt about the band. I had enough anxiety to begin with.

            “Apparently the public is enamored with One,” he said.

            “Not surprising,” I responded. “He’s cute and ridiculous.”

            “You think he’s cute?” Armin asked, tone blank. I almost laughed.

            “I’m not into him like you’re into him,” I said. He flushed.

            “I’m not into him,” he grumbled.

            “Whatever helps you sleep at night, bro.”

            “Shut up.” He turned his head away to hide his raging red blush. I did laugh this time. “I also found a Seven fan club.”

            “You’re shitting me,” I scoffed. “Seven doesn’t even _do_ anything. She just stands on stage and sings.”

            “Apparently it’s the awkwardness that’s so endearing. It’s written on the official website.”

            “That’s ridiculous,” I muttered, turning a corner and glancing up at the spherical mirror on the ceiling.

            “I don’t know. I’m a pretty big fan,” he joked, nudging me with his elbow. I rolled my eyes.

            “That’s just because of her spectacular voice and her mask’s _exquisite_ craftsmanship.”

            “Don’t flatter her. I like her because her awfulness makes me feel better about myself.”

            “It’s your turn to shut up, Arlert.”

            His flush died down somewhat and his mouth curved up into an amused smile. By this time we were in the main lobby of Rose. We walked over to the main door and pushed through it, going out into the sunlit brick courtyard at the building’s front. Just as we were about to descent the stairs Armin’s phone began ringing and buzzing from his backpack.

            “You don’t keep it in your pocket?” I asked as he shoved his coffee cup into my hand. He whipped the backpack off of one shoulder and twisted the strap around the other, unzipping the front pocket and digging his phone from it.

            “Nope,” he said as he looked at the caller ID. “It’s Reiner.”

            “Oh joyous day,” I deadpanned. Armin rolled his eyes before pressing his phone to his ear.

            “Hey, Reiner,” he said. “What’s up?”

            He was silent for a few moments while Reiner’s voice buzzed quietly and incoherently from the speaker. Armin’s eyes got suddenly wider.

            “You… I’m handing you to Reaper. She’s the one that’s going to have a problem with you,” he said. I quirked an eyebrow as he handed the phone to me. I pressed it to my ear.

            “Reiner, what’s going on?” I asked.

            “ _People_ is interviewing us tomorrow,” he said through the phone.

            “ _What?_ ” I asked dryly. “Who agreed to this? I certainly didn’t.”

            “Hold on a minute, Reaper,” he said.

            “I’m holding.”

            “ _People_ called Erwin and tried to schedule an interview.”

            “So?” I interrupted. “Everyone wants interviews. What made this so special?”

            “I’m getting to that. Just calm down. Anyway, Erwin called me while Marco, Jean, Eren, and Bert were over last night and told us that they had offered certain… incentives. Like Porsches for all of us.”

            Erwin was Erwin Smith, the head of the Smith Talent Agency and our manager. He was a kind, personable man who knew what he was doing, so I couldn’t hold anything against him. I could, however, hold something against the assholes who had agreed to the interview.

            “You’re risking anonymity for a _car?_ ” I asked incredulously.

            “It’s not just a car! It’s a Porsche! There’s even one for you.”

            “I can’t drive, Reiner.”

            “You could sell it. One of those could finance your entire college career.”

            “You know what else could finance my entire college career? The band. Something I can’t have if I’m not anonymous.”

            Reiner was silent for a few moments.

            “Why are you so adamant about keeping your identity secret?” he asked.

            _That_ was the question I was avoiding. It made my heart race and voice calm down.

            I sighed into the receiver.

            “I’m sorry, Reiner,” I apologized. “I can’t answer your question. Just do what you want.”

            “I can respect that,” he said. “We told the magazine about your anxiety problems and they said you don’t have to do the interview. They even said we could keep our masks on.”

            “You knew all that and you didn’t tell me that first?” I asked with a small, tired laugh.

            “Bad move on my part I guess. I’m sorry.”

            “It’s not your fault. I need to calm down about shit like this and let you guys do what you want. It’s just that… The seven of us are together so often that if one of us is revealed it’s not going to take much work to figure out that I’m…” I sighed again and heard the front door slam close.

            “No problem, Reaper. I get it.”

            “Thank you,” I said. “I’m giving you back to Armin now.”

            “See you later.”

            “Bye.”

            I gave the phone back to Armin, who said a quick “see you” to Reiner before ending the call. He slipped the device back into his backpack and zipped the pocket.

            “Not too bad, right?” he asked nervously. I massaged the bridge of my nose with my now free hand.

            “I want to pitch myself off a bridge,” I groaned. Armin tried not to laugh. He was unsuccessful. “Hey, fuck off.”

            “Calm down,” he said in the process of slinging his backpack over his shoulders. “Could you throw that cup away?”

            I looked down at the coffee cup I still held in my hand.

            “Yeah,” I said. “Sure.”

            I took off the travel-safe top, turned around, took two steps to go dump the cold coffee into the grass, and ran into something. Hot and cold coffee poured (more like gushed) all over me and the poor soul I had run into. I felt the anxiety kick in immediately – a pain that was simultaneously sharp and dull in the back of my chest. It dropped into my stomach when I looked up to see that the person I had collided with was my hot songwriting professor.

            “I,” I squeaked, ready to pass out. “I’m so sorry.”

            There can be tics when it comes to anxiety attacks. Some people bite their lips. Some people blink repeatedly. Some people – the lucky ones – simply stare into space and appear to be completely normal. Me, my right hand shook with an intensity that could cause an earthquake. And at that moment my hand was shaking so hard that I was sure he could hear it.

            He looked down at me with a scowl on his face. I couldn’t see his eyes because of the large sunglasses he wore (I suddenly remembered that he had a hangover and that I wasn’t helping whatsoever), but I was sure that they radiated anger. He took a deep breath through his nose and I backed up several paces.

            “I am so sorry,” I repeated. “I just – you know – I –“

            “Save it, brat,” he said, holding his empty and dripping coffee cup. He wrung his hands one at a time and sent drips of coffee into the air. Most of them landed on me. “You owe me a cup of coffee.”

            “Yes, sir. Absolutely. I agree. I just…” I turned my head over my shoulder. “Armin?”

            The blonde in question rapidly shook his head. He had always been a wuss.

            “You’re on your own, sweetheart,” he said, scurrying down the steps.

            “I’ll punch you in the _fucking throat_ , Arlert!” I called after him. I heard a slight chuckle and turned to see Mr. Ackerman wincing. “Sorry. Hangover. Got it.”

            He pulled his white shirt slightly away from his body and squeezed a bit of coffee from the fabric.

            “God, this is going to stain,” he said.

            My hand was still shaking tremendously, but I managed to keep my voice calm for once.

            “I’ll pay for a new shirt if you want. I’ve got the money for it.”

            “I might just take you up on that,” he said, making a face when his hands came away covered in coffee. I offered him my sweatshirt-covered arm and he wiped his hands on it. “Thanks.”

            “I would say no problem but now my sleeve is covered in coffee, so,” I said.

            He made a noise halfway between a sigh and a groan.

            “Let’s go,” he said.

            “ _Let’s?_ ” I asked, trying to stay calm. My hand shook harder. “What-“

            “You owe me coffee and if I don’t get caffeine into my system within about fifteen minutes I am going to implode upon myself.”

            “What if I just give you the –“ I stopped myself. “I’ve only got a debit card. _Fuck_.”

            “That’s what I thought, brat,” he scoffed before grabbing my wrist and starting to tug me down the steps. I wrenched my arm out of his grip.

            “D-Don’t,” I stammered. “Just don’t… touch me. Right now.”

            I noticed his head dip. He must have eyed my shaking hand.

            “Are you screaming in sign language or is something wrong?” he asked me.

            “Screaming. Internally. At all times,” I said nervously. “I get really intense anxiety attacks.”

            “I see.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Come along, then.”

            “Do you want me to throw the cups away?” I managed. He shoved his cup into my hand and I stumbled over to the trashcan. Pushing in the can’s flap, I fumblingly got the two cups into the receptacle and leaned against it for several seconds.

            “I’m waiting, brat,” the professor said from his place at the top of the steps.

            “And I’m dying but you don’t hear me complaining about it, now do you?” I snapped before I could stop myself. Mr. Ackerman raised an eyebrow and let out a strange puff of air. I almost thought he was impressed. “Sorry, sir.”

            “Just get on with it.”

            “Yes, sir,” I said quickly.

            I scrambled past him and down the steps, waiting at their foot for him to catch up.

            “Don’t get too overenthusiastic about it,” he grumbled when he met me at the bottom.

            “I think a better word for it would be ‘skittish,’” I said. He shrugged.

            “Perhaps.”

            I thanked a god I didn’t believe in that songwriting was my only class on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, because it was going to take one hell of a nap and several bags of microwavable popcorn to get over how anxious I felt. The perks of being a raging introvert.

 

Levi’s POV

            I felt bad for the girl. There she was, minding her own business, when she ran into me. With her nervous nature that was probably punishment enough, but then I went and made her buy me coffee.

            When we reached the Starbucks it was mercifully empty, the only human life aside from the girl and me being the two baristas behind the counter and the third at the drive-thru window. We walked up to the counter, the girl slightly behind me, and I spoke.

            “One large black coffee,” I said.

            “We don’t have large in our sizes, sir,” the barista said cheerfully, eying my coffee-stained shirt. No one should be that cheerful working a shit job like that. “We have short, tall, grande, and venti!”

            I clenched a fist at my thigh.

            “You know the biggest size you have? Give me that. With coffee in it, preferably,” I said, my tone probably a bit too dry if I were to guess by the horrified look on the barista’s face. She tried to cover it up with a shaky smile before turning to the girl behind me.

            “And you, miss?” she asked.

            “N-nothing,” the girl stammered. The barista nodded.

            “That will be six-fifty!” she said with false brightness, looking to me for payment. I nudged the girl and she started.

            “Pay up,” I told her.

            “Right,” she said, sounding like I had just punched her in her presumably nonexistent dick. She dug into her pocket for her debit card and handed it to the barista. The girl behind the counter swiped the card through the reader before handing it back to her. She quickly pocketed it, signed for the order, and went to sit in a padded chair as far away from the counter as possible. The barista looked at her strangely before turning back to me.

            “What will the name be, sir?” she asked.

            “Levi,” I said.

            “Right away, sir!”

            I grunted to recognize that I’d heard her before going to sit across from the girl who had spilled coffee on me. She looked even paler than she had when I had first seen her, her face taking on a slightly green tinge.

            “Do you need to hurl or take a dump or something?” I asked, sinking into the chair. She rapidly shook her head. Her eyes were wide and unseeing though their gaze was directed at the ground. I sighed. “Jeez, kid. You’ve obviously got some problems. Why don’t you see a psychiatrist? They’ve got one on campus, or so I hear.”

            “I can’t,” she said quickly.

            “Any particular reason?”

            “Yes.”

            I hummed, realizing she wasn’t going to tell me. She fell completely silent, that hand still shaking like some kind of electric fan.

            I took that time to look at her. She had jet-black hair pulled into a ponytail behind her, pale skin (still slightly green), a small nose, a scar lining the left side of her jaw, and icy blue eyes framed by thick eyelashes. She wasn’t ugly (read: she was fucking gorgeous), but her level of attractiveness wasn’t on my mind at the time. What was ringing bells in my head was how familiar she looked.

            “You’re one of my students, aren’t you?” I asked.

            “Yes, sir,” she said. She took a deep, calming breath and I watched her hand’s shaking subside slightly. “Songwriting 101.”

            “And what’s your name?”

            “Reaper.”

            “What kind of a name is that?”

            “What kind of an _attitude_ is that?” she snapped back. She took another deep breath. “Sorry. It’s a nickname. Most of my clothes are black so I look like the Grim Reaper.”

            “Do you have another name?”

            She laughed nervously.

            “You must reach friendship level ten to unlock that information,” she said.

            “Clever,” I scoffed.

            “Levi!” the barista called. I pushed myself out of the chair and walked up to the counter, taking the huge cup and gruffly thanking the girl who had made it. I went back to my chair and took several hot swallows of coffee. The burn took my mind off my throbbing head for a moment.

            Once I swallowed I set the coffee cup in the cup holder.

            “I’m so sorry, Mr. Ackerman,” Reaper gushed.

            “You’ve already apologized enough,” I said.

            “I’m not saying sorry for the coffee. Now I’m apologizing for –“

            “You don’t have to apologize for having an anxiety attack in my presence. I know I’m intimidatingly attractive.”

            She shot me a glare that would have made me shiver if it hadn’t been for her shaking hand.

            “Do you get attacks around everyone or just me?” I asked.

            “Everyone but my friends.”

            “Like your little blonde boyfriend I saw you with.”

            “Armin’s not my boyfriend,” she said quickly. “He’s just a good friend. A good friend who left me to fend for myself in the middle of an anxiety attack.”

            She almost growled the last part. I took a sip of coffee to conceal my chuckle.

            “So, why do you think you get these attacks?” I asked.

            “Okay, everyone has something wrong with them. You have to have something wrong with you. Let’s talk about that,” she said, a bit aggravated. That was probably because I, a stranger, was paying so much attention to her. I chuckled behind my coffee cup again.

            “Okay. I guess I’ve got problems, too.”

            “Like being a complete and utter dick to strangers,” she said. I nodded.

            “That, and being a complete and utter dick to my friends, as well. I also have a somewhat unhealthy fixation with a certain band.”

            I could see her swallow.

            “Which band?” she asked. I noticed that her hand, though its movements had been getting progressively slower throughout our conversation, was now at a breakneck speed.

            “The Masked Intruders,” I admitted.

            It was in no way a lie. The Masked Intruders had been a large part of my life ever since they had broken out onto the music scene three years earlier. The reason I was so hungover that day was because I had gotten hammered in my house while listening to their music and consoling myself over my latest song’s rejection.

            “Don’t tell anyone about that,” I said as an afterthought.

            She looked like she was about to burst into nervous laughter.

            “What’s with the face?” I asked. She quickly tried to blank out her expression.

            “It’s just that I know everything there is to know about The Masked Intruders.”

            I made a “tch” sound through my teeth, taking another sip of coffee and glancing out the window.

            “I’m sure you do, brat,” I said. “Like the fact that there are six members.”

            “There are seven.”

            “You know more than I thought you would.”

            She leaned over and pressed her palms into her eyes, bracing her elbows on her knees. This time she did laugh, albeit low and quiet.

            “What?” I asked.

            “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said.

            “Whatever.”

            My phone buzzed in my pocket, so I dug it out and swiped my thumb across the screen. It was a text from Hanji. I made an annoyed noise in the back of my throat.

            “What was that noise?” Reaper asked me, amused through her nervousness.

            “Annoyance,” I said as I opened the text.

            _I’m goin 2 ur house rite now_ , the message read. _Eyebrows is comin 2._

            I rolled my eyes and took another sip of my coffee before pushing myself up out of my chair.

            “Are you going to make me buy you a shirt now or are you leaving?” she asked. Her hand had slowed considerably. I felt a bit proud of that.

            “I’m leaving,” I said. “Hanji’s going to my house and there’s no way I can convince them otherwise.”

            “Sounds fun,” she said, also standing up. She picked her backpack up from her feet and stutteringly shifted it onto her shoulders. “I’d say it was nice meeting you but I still feel like I want to vomit.”

            “Your hand isn’t shaking so much anymore,” I pointed out.

            “Keen observation skills, sir.”

            “Thanks,” I said dryly. “Have a better day.”

            “Same.”

            I turned and walked out of the Starbucks, not looking behind me. I kept my coffee cup clenched tightly (and carefully) in my hand this time.


End file.
